Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  My heart was racing. “What?” I said. “You borrowed the Roman Holiday gown? But the trunk was locked.”

  “I broke the lock,” he said. “But I never intended to steal the dress. Just like you.”

  “How small was your mother? That dress is tiny.”

  “It was too little. We had to cut it, I fear,” John said.

  “WHAT? You cut the dress? How could you? It’s irreplaceable!”

  “Not the material. The seams,” John said in a pleading voice. “My sister let them out.”

  “You didn’t cremate her in it, did you?” Denis asked.

  I gasped. That thought had not occurred to me.

  Think Pink

  CREMATE?” JOHN’S FACE FLUSHED with indignation. “No, we are good Catholics. We bury our people whole. We bought Mama an extrawide coffin to fit all the skirt inside the box.”

  “Tell me you didn’t bury her wearing it,” I said, on my knees before John, my hands clasped in front of my heart.

  The front door opened. A young woman with a black net veil over her hair stuck out her head. She spoke urgently in Italian.

  “Caroline, no!” John leaped up and bolted into the house. We followed.

  The bald old man had fainted and was lying on the floor. “Papa,” John said. “Papa.” He tapped his father’s cheek firmly until the man’s eyes fluttered open. John and two other guests helped him to his feet and made him comfortable on a flowery sofa. The girl with the veil brought him a glass of water.

  When things calmed down, John approached me, head bowed. “I am sorry, Miss Ross. My meaning was to ask Mr. Delani—he is the mortician—to take her out of the dress before they sealed the mausoleum, but in my grief I forgot.”

  Now I was going to faint and I don’t mean that metaphorically. I became dizzy and Denis had to help me into a chair. “John, please,” I said. “You have to change her clothes.”

  His eyes widened as though horrified. “No, that is impossible. How could I do that to my mother, who has only but for a few hours been planted in her resting place?”

  “But she’s not underground. She’s in a mausoleum, right?” I said.

  “Yes, a vault.”

  “We’re not asking you to dig her up, just to do a quick aboveground costume change,” I pleaded.

  Denis intervened. “John, you took something that didn’t belong to you. Even though you meant to give it back, you could go to jail for not returning it, just like Holly could.”

  “It isn’t any dress,” I added. “Audrey Hepburn wore it in the ball scene at the beginning of Roman Holiday. It’s the centerpiece for the exhibit celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of that movie. If it’s not in the show, your countrymen will be crushed.” I tried to appeal to his sense of national pride.

  “But to disturb my mother,” John said, “that is a sacrilege.”

  “It’ll be fast,” Denis said.

  “She won’t even notice,” I added. “Besides, no woman wants to spend eternity in a dress that’s too tight.”

  “Please, can you pick another outfit for her?” Denis said, ever the deal closer. “We’ll go see the mortician and make the arrangements.”

  John’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. I felt like a heel for what we were asking him to do.

  He nodded. “I suppose.”

  I embraced him. “Thank you.”

  Later that afternoon, John drove us to the Istituto di Moda, where we delivered the trunk full of costumes, with a note attached from me explaining that the last remaining gown from Roman Holiday would be dropped off shortly, and at that point I would be available to help them dress the mannequins for the show. Then we headed to the cemetery where John’s mother had been interred. It was built on the side of a hill. White marble vaults were stacked one on top of another, sometimes twenty high. It was like a high-rise condo building for corpses. In the side of the marble were carved names and epitaphs, glassed-in photos of the deceased, and built-in urns filled with artificial flowers.

  Mr. Delani, the mortician, had arranged for the vault to be opened, the casket to be removed and then taken to a private area where Mrs. Savoy’s clothes could be changed. The family priest was with the body. He was there to repeat the required prayers when the remains were reconsigned to the mausoleum.

  “Here,” John said, handing the mortician a shopping bag containing a powder-pink silk suit. “She wore this to my sister Caroline’s wedding. It holds happy memories.”

  Mr. Delani, a tall man with enormous pockets under his eyes, excused himself in order to make the switch. Forty minutes later, he emerged with the shopping bag that now held the priceless gown. Words cannot describe the relief I felt. But let me try. It was as though I had been carrying the weight of the Tiffany Star cruise ship on my shoulders and I could finally let it go. Now all I had to do was find a spool of matching thread from the 1950s (which I doubted Paramount had kept in its costume archives), repair the dress, and deliver it to the Istituto.

  My biggest concern was maintaining the value of the piece. If it became known that the dress had suffered a serious breach and was restored, its worth could plummet dramatically. On the other hand, if I lined the seams up and hand stitched them together in the original holes made by the studio’s seamstresses using vintage thread (if I couldn’t locate the actual spool), the repair might not affect the gown’s value.

  “Here,” Mr. Delani said, bringing me the bag. “I am sorry for the confusion.”

  “It’s not your fault,” John said. “I forgot to tell you to change her clothes.”

  “Yes, but when you asked me to remove her false teeth, I should have inquired if there was more,” Mr. Delani said.

  “You remembered to ask for her dentures, but not the dress?” Denis asked.

  “Her sister, my aunt, is in need of a new set, and in my grief—” John started.

  As soon as I grasped the bag, I knew there was a problem. It was too light. “Oh, my God,” I shrieked, looking inside. Instead of the Roman Holiday gown, it contained a polyester dusty-pink nightie, nothing more.

  With a Little Bit o’ Luck

  THIS IS NOT THE dress you wanted?” Mr. Delani said.

  “No,” I screamed. “It’s a cheap piece of yecch.”

  Mr. Delani pulled the nightgown out of the shopping bag. “I gave my wife something just like it for her birthday.”

  “Oh. Sorry. But this isn’t the dress your mother wore at her viewing, right, John?”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said, his brow puckered with worry.

  “Someone pulled a switch,” Denis said. “Who had access to the body after the service, before she was buried?”

  “Only my son,” Mr. Delani said. “But he is honest as the day is strong, like me. And what would he want with a fancy gown?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he’s a cross-dresser.”

  Denis kicked my foot, to shut me up, I suppose. “Where is he? Can we speak to him?” he said calmly.

  The man shrugged. “He is back at the camera ardente.

  “Where?” I said.

  “The mortuary,” John explained.

  I looked up to heaven. “Why is this happening? Why?”

  “It’s challenging, I’ll admit,” Denis said. “But doesn’t that make it more interesting? C’mon.”

  After a ten-minute nail-biting ride from the cemetery to the mortuary, I collapsed on a wooden bench outside the office as we waited for Mr. Delani to find his son. “My luck, the kid sold it on the black market.”

  “Or put it on eBay,” John added.

  “That would be better,” Denis said. “Then we could bid on it ourselves.”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “The sleeveless black satin Givenchy that Audrey wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s sold at auction for a million dollars after commissions. This could be worth as much. We couldn’t afford to bid on it.”

  “Speak for yourself, woman,” Denis teased.

  “Oh, so you’d buy it back for me? Are
n’t you the generous one,” I kidded (sort of).

  Denis checked his watch. “It’s only been gone a few hours. If he took it, there’s a good chance we’ll get it back.”

  Mr. Delani marched back into the room, holding a contrite-looking green-eyed, black-haired Adonis by the collar of his dress shirt.

  “This is my son, Mario. He has a confession.” He jerked the boy twice.

  “I—I took the dress. I couldn’t stand for something so breathtaking to be hidden in a vault for eternity. It wasn’t right. I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  Thank God! I thought. We found our thief. “That’s okay. I won’t press charges. The important thing is that we can get it back. Where is it?”

  Mario’s face took on a deepening hue of shame. “My fiancée has it,” he said. “She is recutting it into a wedding dress.”

  “What! She’s cutting it? With scissors?” I said, horrified.

  “Magda is a fine seamstress,” Mr. Delani said.

  “No, she is a designer, like Miuccia Prada, but not as famous,” Mario explained.

  “She has won many awards,” Mr. Delani added.

  “Look,” Mario said, twirling around, modeling. “She made my shirt by hand.”

  My heart was racing. We had to stop her. “Has she already begun?”

  Mario nodded. “We’re getting married Saturday,” he said. “She was to wear her mother’s dress, but this was much more beautiful. And she didn’t mind it had been on a dead woman first.”

  The mortician spoke to Mario in Italian, accompanied by passionately gesticulating hands. John involved himself in the conversation just as loudly and as physically as the two of them. Finally Mario wrote down an address on a piece of paper and gave it to us. “Here is where Magda took the gown,” he said. “It is her shop. I will call and tell her to stop what she is doing. But she has been sewing for hours. You are most probably too late.”

  I’m Getting Married in the Morning

  DENIS PARKED THE VESPA on the sidewalk in front of a small storefront marked “Sarta” just south of Piazza Navona. From the painting of a spool of thread and needle on the sign, I figured that meant “tailor.” Call it instinct.

  Bells jangled as we opened the door.

  A woman appeared from behind a brocade gold curtain. Her round face was doll-like with bright blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and thin lips. She wore the tiara that went with the Roman Holiday costume in her mound of wavy auburn hair. Her top half was slight and waiflike, while her buttocks and hips were anything but. The overall effect was that of a small torso resting on top of an end table. I’m not being catty; I’m just pointing out that from a physics standpoint, there was no way that she was going to fit into that a gown made for Audrey Hepburn.

  “Magda San Giovanni?” I said.

  “Are you the couple who have come for the dress?”

  I nodded.

  Magda fell to her knees and clasped her hands in front of her face. “Please, please,” she begged. “Do not make me give it back until after the wedding. My mother’s dress makes me look like pork.”

  This was Mario’s fiancée? How could such a classically handsome boy marry such an oddly shaped girl? Was their love so strong it transcended the physical? Did the brilliance of Magda’s sewing skills blind Mario to her thunder hips? Was Magda a tigress in bed? Could I be any more superficial? All these questions whirled through my mind as Magda hugged my green pant leg with her head and quivering arms. I gave her a gentle kick so she’d let go.

  “Magda, this dress was worn by Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday,” I explained. “It has to be delivered to the Istituto di Moda for a show.”

  “But the show will not start until Monday,” Magda said. “Someday I plan to be a great designer and I never miss their exhibits. If you’ll allow me to wear it at my wedding, I’ll sew it back together for the Istituto. No one will ever know it was dismantled.”

  “Dismantled? Completely?” I said, feeling light-headed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I removed the seam stitching so I could change the shape of the gown to fit my figure,” Magda said.

  We followed her into the workroom. Pinned onto a mannequin of what appeared to be Magda’s unique bottom-heavy form was the princess-styled bodice of Audrey’s dress. The seams had been opened to just above the waist. In each of these original seams, Magda had created six narrow gussets by stitching triangular pieces of delicate, cream-colored silk, expanding the lower bodice to accommodate her ample hips. The heavily gathered folds of the skirt had been loosened and reattached to the newly expanded bodice. The hem had been turned up by about ten inches, but it had not yet been stitched. The red sash that Princess Ann wore in the movie had been removed and carelessly tossed on the table. Seeing such an iconic gown desecrated like that was almost too much to bear.

  “When is your wedding?” Denis asked.

  “Saturday at ten,” she said, “at the chapel at Mario’s padre’s camera ardente.”

  “You’re getting married at the morgue?” I said. “Isn’t that bad luck?”

  “Yes,” Magda said, “of course it is. How can a couple start their life at the house of death? But it is, ah, how do you say, free, so Mario insisted. He is as cheap as he is handsome. If I have to wear a pork dress for a wedding in a camera ardente, what chance does our marriage have?”

  “She has a point,” Denis said. “The ship docks here on Sunday. Maybe we should stay till then, and get the dress fixed after the wedding.”

  Can this dress be repaired in a day? I wondered. Conservators would take months to undertake such a job.

  “Our wedding is Saturday morning, unless there is a funeral, in which case it will be delayed,” Magda said. “I’ll stay up all night to make alterations.”

  “On your wedding night?” Denis said.

  “It’s all right,” Magda said. “Mario is, how do you say, like thunder in the bedroom, ten minutes and finito.” She clapped her hands together to emphasize the point.

  “You mean lightning, right?” I said. “The electrical bolts from the sky.” I pantomimed lightning for her.

  “Yes,” Magda said. “He is rapido like lightning.”

  “I don’t know, Magda. What if you sweat? What if something spills on it? What if it can’t be fixed in time? The dress has to be returned to its original state and I’m not sure that’s even possible now that you’ve added those gussets.”

  “It’s your call,” Denis said.

  I bit my lip. “You’re on the museum board. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re…”

  “Really something,” I said hopefully.

  “Yes, the way you’ve relentlessly pursued the gown. It’s impressive.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. I had hoped he meant that personally.

  “Please, I beg you…” Magda was on her hands and knees. “I’ll put plastic shields under my arms. I won’t wear the gown to dinner. I’m a fantastico seamstress, everyone will tell you that. And look at what I’d have to wear instead.”

  Magda sprung to her feet, scrambled to a closet, and pulled out the most gruesome wedding gown ever. The bright white top was covered in large satin roses that would make Magda’s one pleasing feature (her small top) blend right in with her problem area (her wide arse). Enormous midlength sleeves resembling satin helium balloons were stuck on each side. The skirt was poufy, like Cinderella’s ball gown. It looked more like a wedding cake than a wedding gown. You would expect to see a getup like this at uglyweddingdress.com (if there was such a site) so people could come from far and wide just to laugh and post mean comments. Come to think of it, that might be a really fun idea for an exhibit at the museum—Ugly Wedding Gowns through the Ages.

  Denis turned to me. “If Magda’s willing to stay up all night to fix the dress, she could get it to you Sunday morning.”

  I shook my head. “Only a trained conservator can repair it,” I explained. “If I could get Nigel Calderwood here, then maybe the two of
us could put it back together. He’d have to contact Paramount to see if he could get his hands on the thread from the spool that was used to make the garment in the first place.”

  “They would have that?” Denis asked.

  “A couturier would,” I said. “They’d have the original needles too. I’m not so sure about Paramount. Movie studios are notoriously bad about archiving that sort of thing. But if we could find it, we might be able to preserve the gown.”

  “I could arrange transportation for Nigel to fly to L.A. and then Rome,” Denis said.

  “You’d do that?” I asked.

  “It’s business. I am on the board of the museum. The two of you can fix the gown on Saturday, and drop it at the Istituto Sunday morning.”

  “The two of us can drop it? Does that mean you’re leaving me in Rome?”

  “I’d stay, but I have to get to Annie,” Denis said. “We’ll be back Sunday. You’ll be fine. There’s so much to see in Rome anyway.”

  Yeah, all by my lonesome, I pouted to myself.

  If I stayed in Rome, I’d miss the stop in Florence. Michelangelo was one of my favorite artists and I’d waited a lifetime to see David’s penis.

  On the other hand, Tanya and Sammie were waiting for me on the ship. How could I face them before the dress was fixed and delivered? The damage was already done. The gussets had been added to the bodice. Let’s see. If the wedding is over by noon, we’d have that day and night to repair the garment, deliver it the next day, then get back on the ship to tell Tanya the clothes were ready for exhibit. I could stop by the Istituto on Friday to help them dress the mannequins in the costumes we’d already delivered.

  “You would need to get the gown back to me as soon as you’re married, capeesh?” I said. That’s a word I learned from watching The Sopranos.

  “Capisco,” Magda said.

  “And you must wear underarm pads, no deodorant or perfume, and don’t eat or drink anything while you have it on,” I said. “And tape the hem; do not sew it. In fact, do not put one more stitch in the dress or even a pin through the fabric.”